


Mark

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M, Ownership, PWP, Possessive Behavior, Public Sex, Sex Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-30 13:49:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10878087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Just to clarify, Thorin stakes his claim.





	Mark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NordicFlamingo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NordicFlamingo/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Bofurshield where Bofur has happily been Thorin's concubine for years. However, others start to notice Bofur, and while Thorin has no suspicions that Bofur would cheat on him he doesn't like it when people make eyes at HIS concubine. Solution? Fuck Bofur rougly in the middle of camp for everyone to see, just to make a point.” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He storms back from the hunt with empty arms, because more important things have come to mind than catching dinner. The rest of the company is largely out searching anyway, with only Bilbo and Bofur left amongst the ponies and supplies. As soon as he’s up the grassy hill, Thorin stalks for his partner. In the midst of fishing an apple from the packs, Bilbo asks, “Oh, Thorin, did you see any—”

But Thorin marches right past him, utterly ignoring him, and his question breaks off when Thorin grabs Bofur by one braid and slams their mouths together. Bofur turns instantly towards Thorin, making it easier to grab his hips and grind them together, head tilting to fit. Thorin buries his tongue in Bofur’s mouth and makes sure that Bofur can feel just how hard he is, even through all the thick layers of fabric. Bofur moans into Thorin, every bit as eager as when he first came into Thorin’s employ all the way back in Erebor. He’s been a faithful companion ever since, one Thorin’s never regretted keeping. Thorin makes that passion clear in his kiss. When he wrenches away, Bofur’s eyes are heavy-lidded and reeling. 

Bilbo doesn’t try to ask again. He’s probably gaping, but Thorin doesn’t care; he’s on a mission now. He keeps his fist tied around Bofur’s braid, forcing Bofur to meet his gaze, and he growls, “I’m sick of other people making eyes at you.”

Bofur just blinks, then frowns. “Thorin, you know I would never—”

“Of course not,” Thorin scoffs—that was never the problem. He trusts Bofur as much as his own nephews. But loyalty isn’t his problem. “I just hate hearing Nori yack about your ass or Glóin guessing just how much experience a royal concubine has.” 

Bofur just shrugs, even though Thorin’s fury should be palpable. They’re standing so close that he can feel Bofur’s breath. Bofur mutters, “They’re just having fun. I don’t mind.”

“ _I_ mind.” He punctuates it by kissing Bofur harder, nearly bending Bofur back with the pressure. His nose digs into Bofur’s cheek, Bofur’s against his, beards scratching together as he tries to meld them into _one_. He sticks his tongue nearly far enough to lick Bofur’s throat. He’s tasted every part of Bofur, and the thought of anyone else trying that is maddening. He grabs onto Bofur’s waist while he works and runs back to squeeze Bofur’s ass; Bofur gasps into his mouth.

Then Thorin turns Bofur, keeping up the slew of kisses while backing him up. Bofur stumbles where Thorin puts him, still clinging on, and Thorin goads him back towards the fire. It’s just started and crackles bright against the darkened sky, warming Thorin’s already burning body. He pushes Bofur right past the row of logs.

Bofur detangles just enough to mumble against his mouth, “Are you going to brand a mark into me or something?”

Thorin snorts and tries not to think about the possibility. In this moment, there’s very little he _wouldn’t_ do to make it clear who Bofur belongs to.

Instead, he shoves Bofur hard, and Bofur topples back onto the ground. He hits the dirt with a grunt, while Bilbo gasps and darts towards them. Bofur just shoots him a look that stops him in his tracks, which is just as well, because Thorin doesn’t have time to deal with nosy halflings. He doesn’t want to have to explain for the millionth time that Bofur is _his_.

He’s planning to demonstrate it. Bofur lays where he was put and barely has time to spread his legs before Thorin’s on him. Thorin surges down, crawling right between his thighs and shoving them wider open. Thorin hikes them around his waist, lining them up so he can grind his crotch down into Bofur’s. Bofur moans filthily, arching off the ground, head tossed back. Even with how far they’ve fallen, now in rags instead of strings of gold and gems, he looks like pure temptation. Now he’s just raw _dwarf_ , ripe for Thorin to take. Thorin bites at his jaw and starts ripping open his trousers. Bofur groans and wraps his arms around Thorin’s shoulders, running up into Thorin’s hair, where he tugs just the way Thorin likes it. Thorin only wishes he’d had the wherewithal to wait until the others returned; he wants all of them to see this, to see how wanton and needy Bofur is for _him_. No one else. Then Thorin gets the trousers rolled up Bofur’s thighs enough to rub against his bare ass, and Bofur mewls loudly before bucking up into him.

Thorin rocks into him right back and turns to bark at Bilbo, “Fetch the oil from my bag!” He phrases it like a clear command, a king to a servant, but Bilbo only stares dazedly at them. He looks like he could be knocked over with one finger.

Thorin doesn’t have the patience for such weakness, but Bofur begs mercy, as he always does, and moans, “Oh, leave the poor thing alone... I have some in my pocket...” Sure enough, he reaches into the folds of his jacket and extracts a small bottle that Thorin jerks away. 

Popping the cork with one hand and shoving down his own trousers with the other, Thorin brings the entire contents over to pour down Bofur’s crack. It requires lifting off him, giving his cock room to spring out, just as hard as Thorin’s is. It’s not quite as thick, but it’s nearly as long, flushed pink with arousal. The oil hits the base of it and drizzles down his sac, between his cheeks, and Thorin pushes his hand there to stop it from spilling on the ground. Instead, he rubs it into Bofur’s crack and fingers Bofur’s hole; he can feel it fluttering against him with Bofur’s shuddering breath. Just a bit of stroking, and Thorin can shove one blunt finger in. Bofur whines loudly, squirming, but his hole quivers open to let Thorin thrust deeper. He goes as far as he can and leans back over Bofur to catch his mouth, kissing him and fingering him open all at once.

Bofur opens for Thorin’s tongue and takes another finger. Thorin scissors him open faster than usual, though they’ve done it all sorts of ways over the years—he’s had Bofur slow and tender in his own bedroom, and he’s had Bofur on all fours in the woods like an animal. He’s had Bofur every way in between. Tonight is about a _point_ , and Thorin drives hard towards his end. He pries Bofur open on three fingers, then draws out to line his cock up with the gaping entrance. Bofur behaves perfectly and doesn’t even try to touch either cock. Instead, he looks at Thorin’s face the entire time, devotion in his eyes. Thorin never doubted him.

But many of the others have wandered back, and Thorin can feel them staring. For once, he wants them to. He wants them to see just how different Bofur is for _him_ than them. He looks up just long enough to see Óin and Bombur staring, Bilbo frozen solid exactly where Thorin left him. Dwalin joins the fray and seems to have trouble deciding which of them to look at. Thorin doesn’t wait for him to decide.

Thorin shoves into Bofur’s hole, and Bofur cries out, hoarse and wild. Thorin lodges as deep as he can on that first thrust with no mind for slowly making love. He doesn’t piston out but slams home and keeps pushing the rest of the way. Bofur’s tight channel pulses hot around him, eagerly sucking him farther down. Bofur’s fingers dig into Thorin’s shoulders. Thorin grabs the corner of Bofur’s ass in one hand and his cheek in the other. His hat’s tilted off his head. Thorin pulls him out of it and into a fierce kiss. 

As soon a Thorin’s in, he’s pulling out again, then shoving down. He’s brutal from the beginning and pounds Bofur into the earth hard enough to bruise. Bofur whines and whimpers into Thorin’s mouth and would probably beg for more if he could. Thorin gives it all he has. He takes out all his frustration for the other dwarves, for this quest, for all the time he and Bofur have lost on so little hope, and forces it into Bofur. He fucks Bofur without mercy, and Bofur never asks for it.

One by one, all the dwarves filter back, and Thorin takes notice of them all, but doesn’t linger past that; Bofur keeps stealing his attention. Ori nearly trips over a log in getting there, and Dori tries to cover Ori’s eyes, but Nori ravenously stares. Balin comes up beside Bilbo, holding him steady, and Glóin plops down onto a log and starts touching himself through his trousers. Bifur doesn’t seem to care and walks right past them to the ponies, but Fíli and Kíli ogle the spectacle like they’ve found the treasure early. Gandalf, fortunately, is nowhere to be found.

Thorin could fuck Bofur for hours, if he had the time—he used to, back when he was a prince that could afford to stay in bed all day, and he’d fuck Bofur over every surface in the room and have Bofur lick him clean afterwards. He doesn’t have time to just lounge around with a mouth on his cock anymore. He doesn’t have time to barrel through four orgasms at a time, spilling one after another into Bofur’s greedy ass. Because he knows he’ll only take one—and make it count—he reaches between them when he’s getting close. He closes his fist around Bofur’s shaft and squeezes—Bofur groans loudly into him.

Pumping Bofur in time with his relentless thrusts, Thorin pounds them home. He’s rough until the very end, when his stomach clenches and his balls tighten, and his orgasm hits him hard. He roars into Bofur, hips bucking beyond his control, and he pumps out each jet right into Bofur’s channel. Even with the audience, it’s just as it always is. He goes giddy with the pleasure, surges through it and keeps milking Bofur’s cock, until he’s at his own end and Bofur’s bursting. He can feel Bofur’s thighs tensing around him and the mess coating both their stomachs. He has no intention of washing it off later. He rides it all out and hopes Bofur walks with a limp tomorrow.

By the time the last of it’s over, Thorin’s panting. The energy’s still pulsing in his veins, but it’s starting to ebb away, and he can feel that Bofur’s melted. When Thorin sits up, Bofur’s arms fall limply away. He lies beneath Thorin, spent and ridiculously handsome, with the sort of love-struck look on his face that the afterglow always gives him. 

Thorin indulges it for only a minute, then snarls at the circle around him, “He’s _mine_. Any questions?”

Predictably, Nori’s hand shoots up. Thorin growls, “I don’t share.” And Nori’s hand goes right down again. He looks disappointed but hardly surprised.

A short tug at his beard draws him back to Bofur. He lets Bofur pull him down for a chaster kiss that he knows is meant to placate him. It halfway works.

Then Balin makes a startled noise, and Thorin looks up to see that Bilbo’s fainted. While Balin fans over his face, Thorin totters up and tugs Bofur by the hand towards his bedroll.


End file.
